All Empires Fall
by drowningsun
Summary: America is dying, and of course England is there to send him off to sleep one last time. Both country and human names are used, but this isn't exactly an AU, just a future fic. The original summary doesn't seem to fit exactly, but I can't think of anything else. Well, this is the first time I've ever done this, so constructive criticism is needed. USUK or general, your pick.


**All Empires Fall**

**Summary: **America is dying, and of course England is there to send him off to sleep one last time. Human names are used, but this isn't exactly an AU, just a future fic.

**Pairings: **USUK or general, your pick.

**Genre: **Angst/Friendship/Tragedy.

As soon as it happened, they knew they'd all been expecting it. After all, history showed that a country just _couldn't _be as large and powerful as America, and so it wasn't really a surprise when the Countries realized that Alfred F. Jones, the human personification of America, was _dying_. No, what _was _a surprise to the rustling, murmuring sea of nations was the sharp, cold _ache_ of certainty, the thought of _"so it's time now, is it?" _that rippled through all of them. The nations shifted on their feet and as they recognized the defeat and realization in each other's eyes they glanced away in embarrassment.

It was at this time of belated awareness that Arthur Kirkland stepped forward from the crowd, stumbling towards the young man(well, young in comparison to present company) and dropping to his knees. "Alfred." He chokes on the fear and recognition and denial coiling deep in his stomach, gnawing, gnawing, gnawing. "Alfred," he says it again, trying to fill up the hole he knows this man is going to leave. After all, he is simultaneously the child he raised and the man he formed a close if tumultuous friendship with in later years. Alfred's breath sighs out shakily and his sky blue eyes flutter open as if woken from a deep sleep. "Iggy?" His voice is soft and cracked like burning asphalt, the vulnerability found there reminiscent of his time spent in the older man's care. "Iggy. I can't-can't see you anymore." Fear seeps into his gasping, stuttering laugh. "I-Arthur, am I-I'm dying, Arthur." He whispers this guiltily, as if it is a sin, and when one, stubborn tear forces its way down his cheek, the nations look away and allow him this small weakness.

Arthur shakes his head, reaching out to clutch at Alfred's hand. "No. No, I-it's just, just time for bed, my boy. It's time for bed." He gasps and shudders like a fish out of water, unable to hide his utter defeat and overwhelming grief. _It's as if, _he thinks bitterly, _he's already dead; he might as well be, there's no point in-_and then his eyes squeeze shut and he wants to _scream_ until his throat is raw _no no no no no no take it back, please please take it back! _But there is no denying it, no taking back this admission of the truth(even if it is only to himself) and for a moment he is so lost in his despair that he almost misses Alfred's small smile, a quiet thank you. "Tell me a story," Alfred whispers, and Arthur, chokes, gasping and stuttering as he latches on to his words like a lifeline. "Which one?" He asks trying to persuade his voice to sound stronger, happier. Alfred grins, his blind eyes sparkling. "Peter Pan! You know, the _first _one." And Arthur has to take a deep, deep breath because _this used to be Alfred's favorite_, but he manages, as he shuffles closer and pulls the great, strapping boy into his arms, right against his heartbeat. "All children, except one, grow up…" He begins, and even though his voice is tired and old and _sad_, there is power and youth and strength weaving into it, weaving into the story as his gaze becomes distant and the images of "never never land" closer and more vibrant as the tale of the boy who never ever grew up progresses.

He doesn't know when it happens, none of them do; one moment Arthur was telling the tale of Peter Pan and the Never Bird, and the next he was looking down at his friend, who somewhere along the line had stopped listening-stopped breathing, stopped _living_. He hunches over Alfred, pulling him closer hands fumbling, sight blurred, and an empty, empty feeling that makes him think _did I die too? I must have, I can't-_but the burning gnawing roiling _chewing_ sensation in his gut tells him that he is alive as he ever was, and he is _alone_. _**Alone**_. The word pulses steadily like a heartbeat, like _Alfred's _heartbeat, and suddenly he realizes that it's _true_, because who else wants to deal with a crotchety old man? No one. No one. No one. Alone alone alone alone. He rocks back and forth, hunched over the dead body that _used to be Alfred_, his face buried in that messy mop of blond hair, eyes burning and lips pursed against the wild, heartbroken howl that's trying to crawl up his throat. _No, _he thinks fiercely. _Not now; not here. _And so he straightens up and steps back into silent, shifting crowd, where he is surrounded by faces familiar and unfamiliar, and yet terrifyingly, completely alone.

**The End**


End file.
